[Illustration: CHATEAU OF SILLERY.] III.--THE VINEYARDS OF THE MOUNTAIN. The Wine of Sillery-- Origin of its Renown-- The Marechale d’Estrées a successful Marchande de Vin-- From Reims to Sillery-- Failure of the Jacquesson Vineyards-- Château of Sillery-- Wine Making at M. Fortel’s-- Sillery sec-- The Vintage and Vendangeoirs at Verzenay-- The Verzy Vineyards-- Edward III. at the Abbey of St. Basle-- From Reims to Bouzy-- The Herring Procession at St. Remi-- Rilly, Chigny, and Ludes-- The Knights Templars’ “Pot” of Wine-- Mailly and the View over the Plains of the Champagne-- Wine Making at Mailly-- The Village in the Wood-- Village and Château of Louvois-- Louis le Grand’s War Minister-- Bouzy, its Vineyards and Church Steeple, and the Lottery of the Great Gold Ingot-- MM. Werlé’s and Moët and Chandon’s Vendangeoirs-- Pressing the Grapes-- Still Red Bouzy-- Ambonnay-- A Peasant Proprietor-- The Vineyards of Ville-Dommange and Sacy, Hermonville, and St. Thierry-- The Still Red Wine of the latter. The smallest of the Champagne vineyards are those of Sillery, and yet no wine of the Marne enjoys a greater renown, due originally to the intelligence and energy of the Maréchale d’Estrées, the clever daughter of a Jew financier, who brought the wine of Sillery prominently into notice during the latter half of the seventeenth century. She had vineyards at Mailly, Verzy, and Verzenay, as well as at Sillery, and concentrated their produce in the capacious cellars of her château, afterwards sending it forth with her own guarantee, under the general name of Sillery, which, like Aaron’s serpent, thus swallowed up the others. The Maréchale’s social position enabled her to secure for her wines the recognition they really merited, added to which she was a keen woman of business. She also possessed much taste, and whenever she gave one of her rare entertainments nothing could be more exquisite or more magnificent. At the same time, she was so sordid that when her daughter, who was covered with jewels, fell down at a ball, her first cry was, not like Shylock’s, “my daughter,” but “my diamonds,” as rushing forward she strove to pick up, not the fallen dancer, but her scattered gems.